Trained to Kill

I knew something was wrong when the guy at the photo counter told me the negatives from our wedding reception were blank. My smile frowned. My brows burrowed into a growl. “My husband’s a photographer!” I proclaimed more in hope than wishful thinking. “How could this happen?”

“I dunno, lady. Maybe he didn’t rig the camera right or something, but dese are all blank. “

The clerk returned the thick envelope full of empty negatives. I felt nauseous. Even if I didn’t want to know, I knew; — this was not a good sign for the start of a marriage, especially between a reporter and a cameraman — even if I was carrying our baby.

Joe had given his Olympus to his best friend, our best man, so to speak, at the City Hall ceremony that crisp May morning. I saw him explain and point to the F-stops, autofocus, and depth of field, all the things photographers had to be aware of using manual cameras of the ’80s. I remember warning Joe to be extra vigilant. While shooting the reception for the Broadway play, “Your Arms Too Short To Box with God,” he’d forgotten to put film in the camera. The head of Boy’s Harbor had chewed him out for that little dozy, but everyone has bad days, or so I thought.

I saw Joe take the camera several times while he explained the technology. I watched his friend position himself around the living room as we danced. He stood on a…